light (and the spaces between it)
by Masquerading as Quality
Summary: "I have seen you do things, allow things, that would compel me to violence against you if I were not sworn to your service," Samara continues, and I'm not sure why the comment stings. Of course she has. A far less stringent code of justice would line up pretty neatly against me on my best days.


**A/N:** I fell wayyyyy back into the Mass Effect trashcan. And I adore Samara, but I also love playing a renegade asshole. So here is this thing.

This is a prompt response kind of for two things rocket2saturn sent me on tumblr: "empty" and "Kisses because I don't want you to go and maybe I can convince you to stay just a few minutes longer"

* * *

 _ **light (and the spaces between it)**_

I never really thought to doubt myself before now. Maybe I didn't have the time. Maybe I didn't have the luxury. Most people don't care for my methods, but they change their tune when they see my results. I guess if I've learned anything of any real, over-arching importance, it's that if you second-guess yourself too much in high-risk situations, you get yourself killed, or you lose people you...

Well. You lose people.

It shouldn't be a big thing. The mission is over. Some of us survived, against overwhelming odds. Now everyone is licking their wounds, saying heartfelt goodbyes, and leaving, returning to whatever they were doing before, or moving onto something new.

It shouldn't be a big thing, but here we stand not a pace apart, just staring at each other without anything useful to say.

 _Don't go_ comes to mind. Useless. There's nowhere to stay. I don't even know where I'm headed next. Is my lot in my second chance at life just to be Cerberus's latest puppet? Do I spend the next few years choosing between slaughtering people and stepping on throats to get what I want, or letting myself get jerked around to make what I want a little easier to grasp at?

What do I even want anymore?

Maybe I've almost died a few too many times lately. The concept of life and death leaves me feeling lazy and indifferent.

The concept of saying goodbye to Samara makes me feel...

 _You are so good_ , I want to say, _and I..._

But that's as stupid as anything else. She's chosen her way of dealing with extreme grief, and I've chosen mine. She follows her code, I...I don't know. Drink too much and pick fights, I guess. What would a mind meld with Samara even be like? Would her righteousness overwhelm my senses, like the Ardat-Yakshi she bore?

She sees the better side of me when I can help it. Would seeing the deepest inner truth of who I am, who I've been, disgust her? Would her code really compel her to kill me, even after all this?

I used to like to think I meant well, at least, even if my temper usually got the better of me. Since this whole thing started, or my life restarted, or whatever, I'm not so sure anymore. Sometimes I think I lost sight of where my anger ended and I began.

"Shepard," she begins now, but if she'd intended to follow it with anything in particular it's already died on her lips.

I open my mouth as though to say something in response, hold out my hands in a show of defeat, remain silent.

She approaches. Sometimes asari don't seem like they've been alive for centuries, but Samara carries the gravitas of her existence in the way she walks. She reaches for my hands and I offer them, too overwhelmed to understand her intentions as her approach continues. We are toe to toe, hand to hand, and now forehead to forehead, and I feel the familiar sensation of the rest of the world disappearing around me as we enter a time and space of our own.

I've never been a crier, yet now I think I feel the distant sting of approaching tears. It's...beyond words. Beyond anything I can even fully understand. Sometimes asari don't seem like they've been alive for centuries, but Samara carries the weight of every century, every decade, every year, every last day she has lived in this world she has invited me into, and I can _feel_ it.

She kisses me then, and there, in the place she's created for the two of us, divorced from the world where we must go our separate ways.

When our lips have parted, she says to me, in that voice that carries the gravitas of her existence, "There is such light in you, Shepard."

I realize I've been wondering all this time why a second chance for me should have been worth pouring endless resources into, and mostly coming up short. Sure, I'm good at what I do, and sure, I don't mind getting my hands dirty, but the same could be said of half of Omega. Light in me? I fail to see anything particularly redeeming.

"You sure about that?" I wonder in response. My voice has felt hoarse since we came back, but I barely remember screaming.

I can't meet Samara's eyes, even here, or maybe especially here, but I can see the small, sad smile she offers me. "I swore myself to one of the strictest codes known to the galaxy to ensure my own righteousness," she says. "I knew I could not trust the strength of my will alone to do what needed to be done. You..."

I...? I, what? I don't have any family, or even any real home. I'm sure ruthless devotion to an impossible task isn't quite as simple or straightforward when you have the kinds of things people say are worth living for.

"I have seen you do things, allow things, that would compel me to violence against you if I were not sworn to your service," Samara continues, and I'm not sure why the comment stings. Of course she has. A far less stringent code of justice would line up pretty neatly against me on my best days. But I feel the sting nonetheless, and so must Samara, because we are as one now in this place she has made for us.

"Many call you ruthless," Samara continues, somehow even softer, gentler than usual, "and I can see clearly now that you believe it of yourself, as well. But I have seen how you care." She holds my face in her hands and kisses me again, and for a second I think maybe I could believe her.

I squeeze my eyes closed, but I'm not sure what I think I'm hiding from. "I'm going to miss you," I whisper at last, and it's as true as anything else I can think of to say.

I feel Samara's fingers beneath my chin now, willing me to find the courage to meet her eyes, and I have to swallow hard before I do it. It's hard to imagine there could be any more in the darkness of her eyes than there is in the physical world, but somehow here she is...infinite. All-encompassing.

"And I, you, Shepard," she says, with the same small, sad smile. "But the people who touch our hearts never really leave us, do they?" She looks up from me. "Look at this space we've created together. It is..." her smile widens, just a little bit, and it reaches her eyes in a way her smiles usually don't. "...beautiful."

And I look, too, and I, too, am compelled to smile at the majesty of our private universe. I've been thinking of it as a space Samara created, unable to fathom that I could have had any part in its beauty, but as surely as I can feel Samara's waist beneath my hands, I can feel the fabric of this place emanating from my own skin.

Samara returns her attention to me. She runs her fingertips over the jagged scars of my face, as though her touch alone might heal them. "There is such light in you, Shepard," she says again, and her tone is at once gentle and quietly vehement. "Do not forget that."

I catch her hands in mine and hold them against my face for a moment. I can feel that our time here has to end, may have gone on too long already. There are things to do, places to be, and Samara is returning to Thessia, and I am...

The physical world returns in fragments, or maybe in a mist, and all at once I'm standing on solid ground again, and Samara is still holding my face in her hands, but her head is bowed and her eyes are closed. Her brow furrows subtly, and at last, she lets go, steps back, and turns to go without even looking at me again.

I sink to the floor in the place where she usually sat to meditate, and contemplate the dark expanse of distant stars outside the window that will never again be hers.


End file.
